When men were men: The Venice Grand Prix turns 100

On St. Patrick’s Day, 1915, in the then-relatively new seaside city of Venice, Calif., 18 race cars lined up along city streets to vie for $3500 in prize money in the Venice Grand Prix. One hundred years later to the day, a small group of L.A. racing enthusiasts gathered in a Venice speakeasy to commemorate it all.

True to the event’s historical roots, the commemoration was held in the Del Monte Speakeasy on Windward Ave. in Venice, right next to the beach. The building itself was there in 1915, according local historian and author Todd Von Hoffman. The place was called Menotti’s Grocery and then Menotti’s Buffet. A 100-year-old building is a pretty rare thing in Los Angeles, but even a century ago, cars were becoming increasingly common.

“There was this fascination with the automobile,” said Von Hoffman. “And what they called ‘automobilists.”

This is Elk's Tooth Curve from the other side, this shot was taken from the bridge that went over northbound Lincoln Avenue.

There was, for instance, the Junior Vanderbilt Cup, a race in two-cylinder open kart-like cars run by 14-year-olds with no helmets. Imagine trying to permit something like that nowadays. Von Hoffman also pointed out that luminaries, from Ed “Big Daddy” Roth to Carroll Shelby, had at one time or another set up shop in Venice. Even Charlie Chaplain did his Tramp schpiele there.

Historian Harold Osmer was up next. You may know Osmer as the author of “Where They Raced,” about the history of auto racing in Southern California. From the first course around the Coliseum in 1903 to the present day there have been 174 race tracks in SoCal.

“More than anywhere else in the world,” Osmer pointed out.

So the evolution of the Venice Grand Prix street circuit was almost inevitable. The track went counterclockwise (because horse racing tracks went counterclockwise and car racing was still being sorted out) from Hampton Dr. to Rose Ave. to Lincoln Blvd. (AKA Pacific Coast Highway) to Venice Blvd. before rocking down to Electric Avenue. Promoters had constructed a canvas wall around the track so you couldn’t see the action without paying. In an age before video games, WiFi, television, radio and Disneyland, a crowd of 60,000 paid to get in to see the biggest spectacle they’d see all year.

The drivers’ names were like the stars on Hollywood Blvd, some that you recognize, some that you’ve hardly even heard of. Among the former was the great Barney Oldfield, “Master Driver of the World,” as he was known by that time. A young racer hero named Eddie Rickenbacher was on the front row (this was the year before he changed the spelling of his last name). The fame of the rest of the drivers hasn’t survived the brutal and unremitting passage of a century, but at the time they were heroes, too: “Sure Finish” Bill Carlson and Dave Lewis at least had first names attached to the local news write-ups; others were just last names and not famous names at that: Ruckstall, Hearnes, Grant, La Cala, Newhall, Morris and Pullen. The rest are too smudged to make out on the agate typeface used in the local paper. The car names are similarly fleeting. Some are revered today, others long-forgotten: Bugatti, Delage, Stutz, Mercer, Chevrolet; Then: Chalmers, National and Maxwell.

Racers corner from Rose onto Hampton. The building in the background is still there and remains just as distinctive as it is in this photo.

The course itself was 3.1 miles around and they’d circle it 97 times. Promoters hoped for an average speed of 80 mph, but fell 11 short of that. It was a fast race but hard on the equipment.

First out was Pullman, who “stripped a gear” on his Mercer on the very first lap. Morris’ National dropped out two laps later with “motor trouble,” the same problem that sidelined Cadwell’s aptly named “Nierwonder Special.” After that it was: Newhouse’s Delage with a con rod, La Cala’s Chevrolet and Grant’s Stutz with “radiator trouble,” Kiela’s “Puente Pronto” with a broken driveshaft, McCroskey’s Chalmers with a broken crankcase, Rickenbacher’s Maxwell with a broken oil line, Parson’s Parson’s Special with motor trouble and Dave Lewis’ Stutz with a broken oil connection.

The Lewis story was a real heartbreaker. He was leading the race at the time, seven minutes ahead of the next car with two laps to go and in sight of the $3500 prize when his Stutz dropped out. Oldfield, running in second, inherited the lead. “Sure Finish” Bill Carlson was 22 seconds behind Oldfield and took third. Oldfield ran the whole race without stopping, and Carlson stopped only seven seconds to take on a quart and a half of oil. Oldfield’s time was 4:24.09 at 68.3 mph.

By the end of the race only five of the 18 cars were still running and on the lead lap. Two more were running but were “flagged.” Osmer explained what that meant.

“In the first auto races, all cars were expected finish the entire distance,” said Osmer. “If a race was 300 miles, all cars had to complete the 300 miles, regardless of how long it took. Trouble is obvious today in that when the winner crosses the line, the crowd rushes on the track in celebration. Ample opportunity for on-track drama. So the fans and sport had to learn how to simply end an event on the winner's final lap. All cars still on track were ‘flagged.’ Hard to think that auto racing as a sport developed from nothing.”

Oldfield’s prize money of $3500 was a big pile of cash back then. If you convert it to 2015 dollars it’s only $81,000. But when you consider that the average person made about $687 a year back then it was five years’ wages. A car in 1915 cost about $2500; a house $3200. The win came in the twilight of Oldfield’s career. For years he had barnstormed across the country, introducing the automobile and the automobile race to millions of Americans who had never fathomed such performance theatrics. But by 1915 he was just about done winning races, the Venice Grand Prix and the earlier Corona Grand Prix notwithstanding. Nonetheless his influence remains to this day. “I believe that Oldfield was the first sports celebrity,” Osmer said. “Without him, Babe Ruth wouldn’t have been as big a deal as he was, others who followed wouldn’t have been as big. He really was the first.” One hundred 100 years later, in a century-old speakeasy near the start/finish line on another St. Patrick’s Day, Oldfield was just as big as ever.

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